


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by indiefic



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Modern Setting, Post Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9902486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pinch hit for the-space-narwhal for the Steggy Secret Santa 2016.  Title taken from Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet xvii

 

Steve isn’t sure what to expect when he arrives at the compound.  Ross isn’t waiting, not that Steve thought he would be.  Tony interacts with the guy, but even Steve knows they’re not really allies.  Though apparently he and Tony are again.  Steve even has the paperwork to prove it.

In the wake of this new world order, Wakanda has enough pull to force Ross’s handlers to bring him to heel.  At least where Steve is concerned.  Bucky is still with T’Challa’s people.  Waiting.  Sleeping.  Hoping for a solution.  Steve doesn’t know how realistic that hope is, but he understands what Bucky did.  It’s not so different from crashing a plane in the arctic.

When Steve pushes open the door to Tony’s office, Tony is standing, staring out the window at the expanse of brown winter lawn.  He’s tapping a card against his thigh repetitively, absently.

Steve clears his throat and Tony turns to face him, his expression tight.  He seems to be mulling something over.  He finally gives his head a sharp shake and takes a step toward Steve, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Fury’s going to be pissed,” Tony says, shrugging.  He frowns.  “Just don’t fuck this up.”

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets.  “What?”

Tony sighs again and shakes his head and thrusts his hand out toward Steve, as if to stab him with the business card he’s holding.  Steve just looks at it and arches an eyebrow.  

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tony says.  “Take the damn thing.”

Steve takes it, glancing down at it.  It’s an address, in Queens.  The kid maybe?

Tony’s frowning again.  “Just don’t ...  Don’t do what I did.  Don’t throw it away.”

Steve doesn’t know if Tony is referring to the card, or something else.  He shakes his head.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tony pauses for a moment, holding Steve’s gaze.  He looks away.  “Peggy Carter.”

Steve frowns, feeling like everything inside of him is drawing inward.  He looks at the address again.  He can still feel the weight of her coffin on his shoulder.  “Peggy’s gone.”

Tony laughs mirthlessly, still looking out the window.  “I guess you’d know.  You were dead for seventy years.”

Steve’s confused, and growing more irritated by the second.  What is Tony playing at?  “Listen, Tony - “

Tony spins around.  “She’s alive.  That’s her address.  Just - “  He frowns.  “Fuck, Rogers.  Just go see her.”

 

* * *

 

Steve didn’t get anymore information out of Tony.  Truthfully, he didn’t even try.  The weird face to face, after nearly beating each other unconscious, combined with the mention of Peggy left Steve needing space.  He had to get the hell out of there.

He went back to the city, definitely not to Queens.  

Not yet, anyway.  

He sits in the dismal little apartment - something he found on Airbnb - and stares at the card.  Peggy Carter.  What the hell does this mean?  

 

* * *

 

It’s two days before he gets up the nerve.  He presses the buzzer.  The speaker is tinny, old.  

“Yes.”

Steve presses his eyes shut.  Even over the horrible speaker, he can hear the crisp British accent.  “It’s Steve Rogers.”

There’s a buzz and a click as the door opens.

 

* * *

 

She stands on the far side of the room.  It’s a loft.  A couple thousand square feet, bare brick walls.  Mostly open space.  There’s a couch.  It looks like she’s been sleeping on it, though she doesn’t exactly look like she’s been sleeping.  

There isn’t much more in the way of furnishings.  Her back is so ramrod straight that he wonders if her spine isn’t about to snap.

They’ve been watching each other for several long minutes.  Neither of them speaking.

Steve finally shakes his head.  “How?”

“Indeed.”

 

* * *

 

“You planning on staying?” Natasha asks.

It’s not a video chat.  Steve doesn’t want Nat to see him.  Hearing the skepticism and curiosity in her voice is more than enough.  “I think so,” he says, taking care to be truthful, and brief.  “A couple of weeks.”

“You’re not going to find the answer to Barnes’ psyche in New York, Steve.”

“Maybe,” Steve says quietly.  “Maybe not.”

When he hangs up, Peggy is watching him.  He’s looking for something, alright.  He just isn’t sure what it is.  Or if it even exists anymore.

 

* * *

 

She’s so tight lipped and all she does is pace.  Steve is beginning to understand it has nothing to do with him.  And everything to do with him.  

He isn’t sure how much she remembers.  She’s especially quiet about anything that happened when he was found - and after.  He has no idea how she’s young again, but he’s fairly certain she knows.  

The restless energy that animates her isn’t because she doesn’t know why she’s here.  He thinks maybe it’s because she doesn’t know why she stays.

Steve tries to get her to engage, but she’s evasive, uncommunicative.  He often finds himself talking, out loud.  He’s getting sick of the sound of his own voice, but he knows she’s listening, even if she doesn’t react.  He thinks it calms her.  He hopes it calms her.  

He talks about Bucky.  A lot.  More than he’s ever spoken on the subject.  He thinks the fact that Peggy never reacts makes it easier.  It’s like talking to himself.

It’s easier to talk about Buck than it is to talk about the things between him and Peggy.  Though many of the thoughts feel interchangeable.  For Steve, at least, it’s a similar sort of pain.  So many lost opportunities.  So much wasted time.  So many hurts he couldn’t prevent.

He hears his own voice break, and then he feels it, her hand on his shoulder.  He hangs his head, unable to look at her.  But she doesn’t relent.  Her arms go around his neck and she pulls him close.  Now it’s her turn to talk and he finds himself clinging to her as he hangs on her words.

 

* * *

 

She searches for information on her family and Steve wonders if it’s better - or worse - than when he woke up in this time.  He didn’t have anyone left.  No one but Peggy, who only remembered him part of the time.  

She has her family - children and grandchildren, friends.  But none of them can know.

Steve still doesn’t know why Tony knows.

When she finally breaks down, he pulls her into his arms and holds her tight.  He thinks about the weight of her coffin on his shoulder and he swears he will never let her go.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t how he imagined it.  

She’s changed.  He’s changed.  

It isn’t the first blush of new love.  Their love is old.  Sepia toned.  Antiquated.  It’s tinged with sadness and bitter regret.  They’re both battle hardened and weary.  They’re both disillusioned.  

They have fought for so long, and sacrificed so much of themselves.

It shocks him.  When they finally lose themselves in each other’s embrace.  The tingle of anticipation in his guts, and the giddy glee in his heart.  It makes him feel like a young man, full of hope and fight.  

He holds her, afterward, in the dark, sated, both their bodies damp with sweat.  It’s the first bit of peace he’s felt in a very long time.  From the sloppy, lazy kisses she gives him, he knows it’s the same for her.

 

* * *

 

Natasha slides onto the stool next to him with her usual feline grace.  She turns to look at him.  Her eyes are kind.  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

He opens his mouth and then closes it.  He takes a breath.  “I found something I didn’t know I was looking for.”  

The scent of Peggy’s perfume still lingers on his jacket.  She was wearing it earlier, as she padded around the kitchen, making coffee.  She wasn’t wearing much more.

Natasha nods.  She can’t know the whole of it.  But she knows enough.  “Stark found records.  Related to a doctor by the name of Fennhoff.  It might help with Barnes.”

 

* * *

 

Steve stays with Peggy, plants himself at her side, metaphorically.  Though often literally as well.  He anchors himself to her with the will to tie them both to this place, this time, to one another.

He’s afraid the reverse isn't true.

It’s dark and her skin is warm and soft under his hands.  “I want you to come with me to Wakanda.”

In the dark, she turns toward him.  “Barnes?”

Steve curses himself for forgetting how well she listened.  In an instant, he understands that she’s been waiting for this moment.  And has a response prepared.  “Yeah,” he says, blundering forward, not allowing himself the opportunity to worry about what she’s going to say.  “Tony found records.  Related to a Dr. Fennhoff.”

“Ivchenko.”

“What?”

She sighs.  “Nothing.”  She moves closer to him, pressing the naked length of her body against his.  She holds onto him like she has no intention of ever letting go.  “When do we leave?”

He releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

 

* * *

 

He curls himself along her back, breathing in the scent of her hair, his fingers tracing over her bare hip.  The far wall is all windows and it overlooks the dense Wakandan jungle.  She pushes back against him, curling her fingers through his.

“I missed you,” he says gruffly.

She rolls over, facing him in the dark.  She places her palm against his cheek and kisses him so gently.  

 

END STORY

**Author's Note:**

> I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
> 
> or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
> 
> I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
> 
> in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
> 
>  
> 
> I love you as the plant that never blooms
> 
> but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
> 
> thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
> 
> risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
> 
>  
> 
> I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
> 
> I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
> 
> so I love you because I know no other way
> 
>  
> 
> than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
> 
> so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
> 
> so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
> 
> \- Pablo Neruda, Sonnet xvii


End file.
